


Song as old as Rhyme

by Louie_McLouFace



Category: Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Bad Writing, Fluff and Angst, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Happy Ending, John Is So Done, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, so bad its good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2018-08-09 15:36:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7807432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louie_McLouFace/pseuds/Louie_McLouFace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mystrade beauty & the beast AU that no-one knew they needed.</p><p> </p><p>Wait a second. I promised him i'd stay here forever?<br/>"Who is he?" Lestrade wondered out loud.<br/>"He is my brother. He owns this castle and everyone in it, which now includes you. Congratulations Mr Lestrade, you are now an unlucky prisoner of one Mycroft Holmes."</p><p> </p><p>Dedicated to Freddie, my biggest inspiration and my favourite collection of freckles x</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's a pity and a sin

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic so please don't judge me for it. Basically all the Sherlock characters are Beauty & the Beast characters, get it? Special thanks to my sister Jess who helped inspire this fic. Comments are a great help so please give them my children. Have fun!...  
> 

The hazy morning breeze drifted slowly down through that small provincial town like every other morning. And, like every other morning, Greg Lestrade wondered down the streets, his head in the clouds and his mind in a different world. He picked his way down main street, skimming over the cobblestone paths, briefly pausing to say good morning to the Barber, then the Butcher, then the florist, then the...

"G'mornin' Lestrade!" Boomed the baker, far too loudly for anyones liking. Anyone else in their right mind would have glared at the baker, what with it being so early in the morning and him being so enormously loud. Greg however, simply smiled at the baker, because, unlike the rest of the town, didn't mind people being different.  
"Good morning," Grinned Lestrade happily.  
"Where ye be a headin'?" Inquired the baker, still obnoxiously loud.  
"To The Yard," sighed greg, "I've got some business to do, but I'll probably stop at the library first..."  
He was cut short by the baker's tuba of a voice demanding more baguettes from his apprentice, completely forgetting Lestrade even existed.

Greg shrugged and made his way to the book shop, eager to get to get to The Yard before noon. He was so concentrated walking to the store that he completely and luckily missed the inclement fog of gossip surrounding him.  
"Isn't he strange..."  
"I feel sorry for the poor lad, especially with a father like that!"  
"He's so handsome, it's a shame he's rather odd."  
" ...Head in the clouds as my mother would say."  
"Rumor has it that he's..."  
"...ever get married?"

He was just about to duck into the library when he felt a crowd behind him. He turned around, only to notice a surprisingly large amount of whistling, examining of fingernails and aimlessly staring at the floor or gazing up into the sky. Greg thought nothing of it and waltzed into the shop. As he stepped in, the welcoming smell of old musty books engulfed him, suddenly leaving him feeling quite relaxed. The familiar librarian poked his head out quickly from round a bookcase at the sound of foot steps and smiled, who else could it be?  
"Greg my boy! Back already?"  
"Oh it turns out we need another book on foreign mushrooms, have you got anymore in?" He asked, gazing at the long rows of neatly stacked books.  
"Not since yesterday," Chuckled the librarian. Lestrade simply smiled and turned to one of the tallest cases, he skipped up a ladder and within two seconds he was back down with a worn leather book with faded gold accents on the spine.  
"It's alright, can I borrow this one, I think I read it a while a go and page 427 it said something about mycelium..." He flipped through the thin pages to find the one he was looking for. The librarian cut him short by closing the book and resting his hand on Greg's shoulder.  
"Keep it Greg, it's more use to you than anyone else in this town." After all, the librarian would rather see it go to a good home than turn to dust on his shelves.  
"But sir I..."  
"No buts, I insist."  
Greg could do nothing but smile impossibly wide. He thanked the librarian and left the shop, anxious to get to The Yard on time.


	2. Positively Primeval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade goes to The Yard to see Anderson...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to jess for helping x. I hope you enjoy, keep commenting because it just makes my day, thank you children :)  
> WARNING: Anderson is super creepy and cringey so watch out...

Think of the grimmest place you've ever been in. Cobwebs adorning the ceiling, the walls dripping with some unknown substance, broken chairs, the tables wearing battle scars and a smell that I'm not going to describe on the grounds I will make any poor soul who reads this terribly ill. That place is somewhere where most people would rather spend the night in prison than be in. That place is somewhere that Greg Lestrade stood outside of, his stomach churning at the thought of what's inside. That place is somewhere, known to the unfortunate people who live close to it, as The Yard.

 _Come on Greg._ He thought to himself. _How bad can it be? One minute. In, do business with Anderson, out. You'll be fine. What's the worst that can happen?_

He took a deep breath and stepped inside the dismal tavern, hoping to be in that place for as little time as possible. Immediately the reeking odour of The Yard assaulted Greg's nose, leaving him coughing and a little overwhelmed. He moved past the 10 am drunkards, all slumped half asleep at the table nearest the door, narrowly avoiding a wandering hand that was reaching out for Greg's derriere, and sat very stiffly on a stool at the bar.

The dim candles round the room making the place seem even more dark and sinister than it probably was, made Lestrade more than a little nervous as he waited. As Greg was beginning to think he wouldn't show, the door swung open with an enormous crash to reveal one svelte figure and one slightly smaller figure with large curly hair.

Anderson and Donovan.

Anderson strode over to the seat next to Lestrade and dropped himself down, Donovan stood next to Anderson and folded her arms. There was a very long awkward silence before anyone spoke.

"Lestrade, nice to see you" Anderson smirked, "I trust your father is doing well"

Donovan sniggered "If by well you mean a freak." They both laughed until Anderson saw the look on Greg's face. He slapped Donovan round the head and scolded her, 

"Don't talk about Greg's father that way, he's very... unique" They both fell silent but were grinning like hyenas. Greg coughed in his throat, placed a small bag of coins on the bar and slid it next to where Anderson was sat.

"Did you get the mushrooms I asked you for?" Greg asked, taking a deep breath despite the horrid smell, the atmosphere of the tavern beginning to make him feel anxious. Anderson leaned back in his seat and pulled out a leather pouch and dropped it next to Greg. They both looked inside the bags next to them to see what the other had given him.  _Oh god. He got the wrong mushrooms. What a dick._ Lestrade thought as he looked up at Anderson. The man in question had his brows knitted together in confusion, as if Greg had given him some spoons instead of money.

"You gave me half the money."

"You gave me the wrong mushrooms."

"How was I supposed to know they were the wrong ones?" Anderson complained.

"How was I supposed to know you changed your price?" Greg challenged. Donovan laughed at the ridiculous converse and got hit round the head for her troubles.

"Look, I walked halfway across the forest to get these mushrooms, and remember, you owe me money from our previous dealings, where is that money Greg?" Anderson asked, pulling a lopsided grin.

"I told you, I'll get you the money. You see, I needed those mushrooms to give to my father and then he..." He stopped talking as Anderson leaned forward and ran one finger down Greg's jawline. Lestrade went stiff and pulled away from the touch, but he was no match for Anderson's incredibly long arms.

"Greg, you're so handsome, it's time you got your head out of the clouds and married someone even more handsome, like me." Anderson pulled a "smoulder" and Donovan just giggled in the background.

"Anderson, I've told you I'm not interested, go fuck Donovan if you're that desperate." Greg spat, losing his patience and just wanting to get out of this rat's nest. Donovan snarled and Anderson grabbed Greg by the shirt and pulled him close, his vile breath invading Greg's space.

"It's lucky you're pretty Lestrade, you've got a month to get me the money. One month, or me and Donovan here might just have to come and pay you a little visit, got it?" Anderson spat at Greg.

"Got it." Greg swallowed. Anderson shoved him back into his chair and left with Donovan, who was still sniggering. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.  _Shit._ He thought. _Shit. Shit. Shit._ He stood up, brushed himself off, left the disgusting excuse for a tavern and headed for home. Greg didn't stop to talk to anyone as he marched up the path, too focused on where he was going to get money from to care about the townspeople. When he reached home, he went straight upstairs to his room, closed the door and then sank down to the floor, his forehead resting on his knees.  _Well done Lestrade. You have totally screwed yourself over._

"GREG!? ARE YOU HOME?!?" His father called from downstairs.

"I'll be down is a second." He shouted back halfheartedly. He got up, wiped his hand over his face and went to see his father. 


	3. This can't be right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's dad is being a wee bit difficult and Greg runs into more trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while my children, life got in the way but I hope you enjoy! Special thanks to Jess, comments are welcome as always :)  
> 

Greg arrived downstairs in the workshop only to find an enormous cloud of pale green smoke shrouding the room in a sickly blanket. He waded through it to find it smelt of old socks which made him cough slightly. He blindly felt his way through the fog to find a older man flapping frantically at a small petri dish that was choking out the thick smoke.

"Greg... _cough_...Help me with this will you?... _cough_." His father managed to choke out.

Greg used a cloth from the side to try and fan away the smoke while his father found the lid to the petri dish. Once it had been contained, they opened all the windows and doors in an attempt to ventilate the small space. Greg stifled a half cough, half laugh at the ridiculous look of the room. The accident had left everything, including Greg and his father, tinged slightly green and smelling of old socks. He pulled up a chair next to the workbench where the now covered petri dish lay, and slumped down, leaving a very small lime cloud in his wake.

"Greg, did you get the mushrooms?" His father wheezed as he carefully began adding things to the viridescent contents of the dish. 

"Well, I got  _some_ mushrooms," He mumbled placing the leather pouch on the bench and waiting for the lecture of " _These aren't the right ones Greg." "What am I supposed to do with these Greg?" "How will I ever earn money from making medicines if you can't get me the right ingredients Greg?"_ His father took one look inside the bag and placed them back on the table with a sigh. 

"Greg," He started, using his disappointed tone," you know these aren't Lactarius Indigo mushrooms. Why do you have these?"

"Because Anderson decided he was too lazy to go through the forest and get the proper ones so he got these from the side of the road." Greg complained, " Father, if only you'd let me go through the forest, you know I'd get the right ones..."

"No Greg. It's too dangerous for you to go out there, thats why Anderson goes, he's clearly the best hunter in the village, he can protect himself."

"But..."

"NO Greg."

"Father," Appealed Lestrade," we can't keep asking Anderson to go and get us ingredients, not only does he give us the wrong things, he charges ridiculous amounts of money for what we don't even want. We owe him a lot Father." He finished with a look that can only be described as desperation. His father sighed, put down his experiment and pulled another chair next to Greg, creating another small pea coloured breeze. 

"Gregory. I don't understand why you don't like Anderson, he's strong, handsome, respected..." He was interrupted by a dismissive snort from Greg. "And he would be a suitable fellow for you to settle down with. He's your age isn't he?"

"Yes and with ego enough for us both, arrogant prick." The last part he mumbled but his Father heard it anyway and chuckled. 

"Okay son, if you get the Lactarius Indigo then I can finish off this medicine and then we'll have enough money to not have to worry about Anderson for a while. I'll let you go to get it but only if you promise to be back before nightfall and to stick to the paths. Are you clear?" His father asked sternly. Greg could only smile.

"I'm clear sir." He said as he leaned across and hugged the old man, making yet another old sock tainted cloud. He stood up, roughed up his hair to rid himself of the sickly looking colour, grabbed his jacket and satchel and left quickly, eager to explore the forest. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The forest was a marvelous place, full of tall shading trees and small carpeting ferns, bright coloured flowers and long twisting paths that added to the magical and dizzying aesthetic of the place. Before long however, Greg found himself in a dark shadowy spot without even realizing he'd lost the path half a mile back. He kept walking, in search of those blue mushrooms for his father, but no luck prevailed. He was about to give up looking and head back home when he realized.  _Lestrade you idiot. You have no idea where you're going do you? You are completely and utterly lost. Congratulations you enormous fuck up._  Suddenly, to stop his thoughts and to add more drama to this already dramatic situation, Greg heard a noise.

_A howl_

He had heard many tales of the baskerville hounds, but nothing he had been told could've prepared him for the sheer terror that struck through his system at the sight of one of the legendary hell dogs. It was right in front of him, glowing eyes, a tsunami of teeth and a growl that would give a man nightmares for months. It took one dreadful step towards him and Greg fled. He turned and ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction from the hound. However we do not need to be geniuses to figure out that the monster had pursued him in equal amounts of energy and adrenaline. He saw what could've been a nice escape route, but this was soon blocked by another hound. He kept running, further into the abyss of the forest in hope of losing the now gaining number of hell beasts tracking him.

He heard a vicious snarl to his left and in a panic he lost footing and fell down a very large slope. He tumbled and slid until he hit the bottom and froze, he had badly hurt his wrist but that wasn't what was bothering him at that moment. Four hounds were chasing him down the slope, jaws gnashing and snapping at him, hungry for a slice of raw Lestrade. He leapt upwards and turned again, only to see a magnificent gothic castle behind him. The gates were close so he made a run for it, stumbling over his own feet but managing to rench the iron fencing just in time. He wrenched it open just enough to slip inside before slamming it shut on the demons behind him.

They howled and gnarled and growled and spat at Greg but he was to taken in by the castle to notice. The large gothic gargoyles adorning each pillar surrounding the castle seemed to stare at him all at once, and the towering architecture leaned over him enough to make you feel queasy, but Greg simply just stood and stared. The whole picture was to fascinating to him to be scary or sickening at all. He turned back to look at the beasts behind him, still clawing at the iron in an attempt to get at Lestrade, weighed his options, and shakily walked towards the grand doors of the palace in hope of some shelter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go, hope you enjoyed it my children :) Please comment because it makes my day and keep looking out for my next update. Have a brilliant day :) 
> 
> (Yes I did actually research mushrooms just for the purpose of this fic and Fun Fact: Lactarius Indigo is basically this awesome blue mushroom found in east asia but has been reported to have been found in the south of france!?!)


	4. Now you've done it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is FINALLY in the castle and he makes some new friends as well as some enemies. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so so sorry this has taken forever but life hits pretty hard sometimes, heres a new chapter for you my children. Thanks to Ethan for the inspiration for this chapter. Comments and kudos are welcome as always.

Lestrade turned around and pushed the door closed with a loud thud. He rested his head on the cold oak and slid down to his knees in sheer exhaustion.  _Holy shit. I...That...They...I... holy shit._ He stayed like that, eyes closed, head down, fingers desperately clutching at the door in an attempt to keep himself grounded. He turned round, eyes still closed, so that he sat with his back to the door his head slumped down so far his chin touched his chest.  _Breathe,_ He told himself,  _Just breathe._

He opened his eyes only to see a long strip of red. No. It was red but the colour was different. Not a dark mahogany or a deep vermillion. Nor was it a bright ruby or fresh coral.  ** _Crimson_** **.** Smooth, luxurious and dangerous.

He opened his eyes only to see a long strip of  _crimson_. He tilted his head again. More crimson. In fact the whole floor was carpeted in it. He stood up slowly and his vision followed. Gradually he could see a long grand staircase covered in the very colour. And the long drapes hanging by each window adorned the same hue. It really was a magnificent sight. The grand architecture of the elegant interior, all given character by that one shade of red. The large staircase climbed halfway up the building before splitting into two separate paths at the middle. The smooth shape and colour made the long twisted gold banister shine all the more brightly in the moonlight which came from the top of the middle landing. Stealing all the wall space was a ginormous window that if you did not know was there, would've looked just like a portrait of the night sky. It leaked moonlight onto the stairs which made the palace seem even more magical.

 _Oh crap that's right. I'm in a palace._ Greg frowned to himself. His gaze tore off the stairs and onto the huge entrance in front of him. It was large and empty except for two doors on either side of the hall. The palace was well decorated but it seemed cold and lacking life, as if someone had cut out it's heart. Greg walked slowly into the middle of the hall, all the while taking in the cold scene around him.

"Hello?...Hello?... I'm sorry to bother you but I'm a bit lost." Lestrade called out. "Is anyone here?"

He looked around but saw no one, the emptiness and silence practically palpable. Then all of a sudden there was a rustling from behind one of the doors and in to the room burst tall lanky man with a shorter, stocky man trailing behind him. The tall man had pale sharp edges and a mop of black curls, he looked very elegant but cold, just like the castle. The shorter man had a softer figure but his face adorned a sullen frown that was directed at the tall man.

"Hello Sir!" Tall man called, "My my, look at you, you look awful dear sir, here sit down." He gestured to the stairs where greg then sat awkwardly. Tall man then suddenly ran off and returned with a large grey blanket which he wrapped around Greg's shoulders. "What brought you this far into the forest my good man?" Tall man asked. Greg recounted his tale of his father and the Lactarius Indigo mushroom and Anderson and by the time he was finished, Shorter man's brow had unfurled slightly, looking more concerned than angry.

"So you see," Said Greg finally, "I have no idea what to do or how to get home." The tall man's lit up and before he could say anything, shorter man cut him off.

"No no no, Sherlock you know he won't like it."

"Oh come on John, what's one night going to do, eh?"

"He'll flip Sherlock and you know it"

"But Jawnnn..."

"NO Sherlock, he's not our responsibility."

"We can't just throw him out."

"We can't just keep him here."

"JOHN."

"SHERLOCK"

"BOYS" An older lady scolded from across the hall, " Stop arguing dears, you'll wake up the whole castle and then we'll all be in trouble." Tall man and Short man, no,  _Sherlock_ and  _John_ grumbled to themselves but stopped fighting as the woman had told them. "Hello dear," She turned to Greg, who was still flustered from Sherlock and John's previous converse. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Mrs hudson..."

"She's the housekeeper." Sherlock interrupted with his smooth baritone voice.

"Sherlock! We both know that's a lie." Mrs Hudson said harshly, leaving a long awkward silence. Greg coughed and stood up shakily, still not having recovered from his previous escapade.

"Hello Mrs Hudson, I'm Greg. Greg Lestrade." He smiled and stuck out his hand purposefully, but before she could shake it a deafening boom shook the room. Greg jumped back away from the stairs, Mrs hudson squeaked and John subconsciously grabbed Sherlock's wrist. A large dark figure appeared at the top of the west staircase, it seemed to make the night sky run away and hide. The room was suddenly darker and colder than before, like the souls of those inside had been swallowed up.

"There is a stranger here." Said the figure, low and loud like some sort of beast. "Why have you come here?"

"I...I...I was lost a..and I was chased and..." Greg stuttered

"You should not be here!" The figure shouted at Greg.

"He needs a place to stay."  Sherlock said calmly and unafraid. 

"I'll give him a place to stay!" It shouted and practically flew down the stairs. It grabbed Gregs shirt collar and began dragging him off. Mrs hudson was hidden behind Sherlock and said something that Sherlock didn't comprehend. He was too busy focusing on the hand still clasped firmly around his wrist. 

Barley moments later, Greg had been dragged down into some dungeon area and thrown in a dirty cell with nothing inside except a small shadow of moonlight from a small barred window. Without another word the door was bolted and the strange figure left Greg to wonder _WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON???_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOH DRAMA. So you met Sherlock, John and Mrs Hudson!... I hope you enjoyed it my children :) Comment and kudos because it makes my day 109% better x


	5. No time to explain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade is just so done rn and John don't like what he sees...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a bit stuck on this chapter but my brilliant mind came to the rescue aha. Thanks to my shitty spotify playlist for giving me the energy to keep writing. Keep reading my children and have an amazing day because you deserve it :)

Lestrade sat down in his cell. 

_His cell._

_Shit._

_This has not been a good day._

He rubbed his hand over his face and groaned in sheer confusion. The cold room around him was dark and damp but comparing to the rest of his day it wasn't too bad. He walked over to the small window in his cell and had to go on tiptoes to see the outside. Greg couldn't see much because it was so dark, but what he did see was extraordinary. Long twisting paths that lead through what must be an acre of flowers and they all lead to this one giant fountain at the front of the garden. The fountain was three tiers high and had all kinds of intricate patterns decorating its exterior. But it looked as if it hadn't been used in quite sometime, in fact, most of the garden, though it was beautiful, looked discarded and unkempt. As greg turned to get a better view of the other side of the garden, he heard some faint commotion from outside the cell. It grew louder and nearer until greg could finally make out some voices.

" Please... Let me go....I....I need to find my son." 

"You have trespassed here. You cannot leave."

"Brother, I think you're being a tad unreasonable."

"A tad? Sherlock honestly, I think he's being more than unreasonable. Hes gone mad." 

"I meant no harm....I got lost and...please help me find my son."

Lestrade instantly recognised his father's voice as well as Sherlock's, John's and  _It's_. Whatever  _It_ is. He ran to his door and looked through the small hatch and sure enough, the figure had dragged his father into his own cell.

"PAPA." Greg called. "Papa i'm here, i'm okay, I'll get us out of this." 

"Greg...get out of here...run. GREG RUN." His father called back.

"Let him go. He has done nothing wrong." Lestrade tried.

"He has trespassed." said the Figure. 

"And so have I! Look, let him go, and...and keep me instead."

There was a long silence followed by another shuffle and his father's cell was opened and he was thrust out and taken down the corridor by sherlock without so much as a goodbye. Greg thought that the silence that followed was almost a comfort compared to his current situation.  _Well done Greg. You're now trapped in a castle with a **monster**_.

"You must promise to stay here."

"I promise."

"Fine, John, show him to his room. We don't want him rotting down here forever."

And just like that, Lestrade had enslaved himself to this beast. The figure swept off and left a chilling air in his wake. John sighed and opened the door of his cell. He motioned with his head for him to follow him down the opposite corridor to sherlock and  _It_. Greg simply followed and did not say another word the entire Journey, he just reflected on the fact  _You really messed up this time Lestrade, nice one. If this all wasn't so screwed up, I'd be laughing right now. Honestly what the hell is happening. This day has just gone from bad to worse._

They turned from the cold stone walls of the dungeon to the large hall that this whole drama started in. It seemed colder now that Greg knew he was trapped here, and he couldn't help but shiver as he passed through the moonlight on the stairs. John led him to the East wings and after a lot of walking through halls and corridors of paintings and elegant tapestries they came to a part of the corridor that kept going straight and had a right turn about halfway down. John huffed and kept walking towards wherever the hell Lestrade's room was. But as they walked past the corridor on the right, John froze. He went pale, his face went blank and his arms hung loosely by his side and he seemed to hold his breath for far too long. In all of one second, he had turned, given Greg a key and walked off back the way they came. Lestrade peered round the corner to see Sherlock with his arms around the waist of some pretty little maid who he had pressed against the wall. She had her arms around his neck and was smiling broadly as she gazed into Sherlock's eyes, which made Greg just a small bit uncomfortable. He kept walking in order to escape that gross scene of affection and peered down at his key.

_221B_

He was only at 194 so he kept going until he reached a very large looking room which was labeled 221B.  _Well this can't be right. I'm a captive here. I can't be sleeping this room, right?_

The room itself was amazing, everything inside probably cost more than his entire house about 12 times over. His bed was HUGE and was covered in all manor of pillows and furs and he simply kicked off his shoes and flopped on it. He leaned his head back and let the adornings of the bed swallow him into a nice warm sleep, his last thought being  _I still have no idea what the shit is going on._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was interesting aha. I'm sorry it's so bad but I hope you enjoyed it. Please comment and leave kudos because it inspires me to write more. Keep reading and have a great day lovelies :) :)


	6. I don't know how

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade being a bean and Sherlock being a musical son of a bitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so so sorry it's taken a while, I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I did writing it. Have fun :)

  _Shit I can't get away. They're here. I can hear them behind me. Their growls are getting closer and closer. Run. Greg for god's sake run. Get out of here. Through the trees, just dodge and keep going. Fucking hell Lestrade don't you stop._

_A howl._

_Shit Greg they're right there. Run._

_RUN._

_Okay you're at the gate. Greg you can make it. Just open the gate. Open It Greg. For fucks sake why won't it open?  Try harder, pull harder, shake it harder, put everything you've got into it. It's not opening. Holy shit. Holy shit they're here. Gnashing jaws and glowing eyes. Teeth. So many teeth. This is it. The gate is stuck. They're getting closer. Howling and growling and spitting and getting closer. THE HELL HOUNDS. ITS TRUE GREG. YOU'RE GOING TO DIE. GREG. FUCK. NO. NO NO NO. THIS IS THE END. GREG._

_NO._

Greg jolted awake and couldn't breathe.  _It was a bad dream. Just a bad dream._  He sat up in bed still shaking and wrapped himself up into a small ball and simply shook for a few moments. He was covered in a damp layer of sweat that had drenched him and his bed. Although he was scorching hot he felt freezing, inside and out. He took a few minutes to adjust to the darkness of his room only to realise that this wasn't his room. He was in that bed in the huge palace with the weird people and the big scary thing and holy crap this has been a messed up night. He decided best thing would be to get out of the wet clothing and just as he has steadied himself enough to walk, he noticed a pair of pyjamas folded neatly on a dresser opposite the bed. 

 _You know what. I'm too done to even question this right now. I just give up._  He peeled off his wet clothes and slipped the pyjamas on and  _holy shit this is so soft._  After a minute or two spent running his hand back and forward over the sleeve of his pyjamas to get it to change shade with the direction of the fluff, he grabbed a reasonably unwet blanket from the end of his bed and wrapped himself up on the the large window sill that looked out into the night sky. The stars looked quite cold and empty as they shone down on him, like they were teardrops in the sky. The night was filled with them, the spilled diamonds of space that glittered in the moonlight. God they were beautiful. Greg just wanted to stay in that moment forever if he could, in the quiet, in the moonlight, with nothing disturbing him in this really weird situation. And thats when he heard it. 

Piano music. 

Soft and faint, but he could still hear it. It was like a little light in his dark silence of a room. It was slow and sad. Almost as if it was meant to be happy but all the life had been ripped out of it. Greg turned and walked towards his door, letting his blanket fall to the floor behind him. He followed the sound out of his room and down a dim corridor, and the further he walked, the louder the sound grew. As he turned into another corridor he saw an open door with a long stretch of moonlight leaking out. And through that small gap he could just about see the outline of a long black piano and a long svelte figure. He creeped over to the door and peered inside and sure enough, there was Sherlock at the sleek instrument. 

"Come in Lestrade." he heard Sherlock sigh. Greg shuffled in awkwardly before deciding to sit on one of the long tables next to the piano.

"Why are you awake so late?"

"I rarely sleep, I thought some piano might help calm my mind. Why are you awake?"

"...Can't sleep, it's not the same in a strange bed you know?" 

"Hmmm." Hmmmed Sherlock. He slowed down his piece, and with the change of tempo came the change of mood. It quickly dipped from sad to just empty, as if it had lost all of it's energy. Sherlock only had to play a few small notes, but they hit Greg with a hard force that he'd never felt before. Sure he'd felt sad and depressed from time to time but this...

This was something close to despair. 

"Sherlock?"

"Yes Lestrade?"

"Am I really stuck here?"

"You did promise him to stay here forever."

The word  **forever** slapped him in the face when Sherlock said it, as if by his conformation it had really sunk in. He was stuck. In here. With that  _thing_. Forever.

_Wait a second. I promised **him** i'd stay here forever?_

"Who is he?" Lestrade wondered out loud.

"He is my brother. He owns this castle and everyone in it, which now includes you. Congratulations Mr Lestrade, you are now an unlucky prisoner of one Mycroft Holmes."

And there they sat in silence for the rest of the night except for the piano, plinking away as background music as they lose themselves in their heads. Each man battling with his own thoughts and each man dreading even the very idea of falling asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's really bad but there it is. At least we know who Mycroft is aha. Thank you reading everyone and I hope you have a great day xx :)
> 
> (I was going to put violin in but I play piano and I thought it would be super emotional to have that now and bring the violin in later when we take a closer look at Sherlock...)


	7. Will no one help me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MYCROFT!!!! And Greg has his name forgotten...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's late like usual, i've been ill and working through some things but I pulled myself together for this chapter, I hope you enjoy it. Thanks to my amazing bf for the initial inspiration and stimulus for this chapter x. Please comment and leave kudos because it makes me feel a million times better haha. :)

_*Sniff Sniff*_

_What is that smell?_

_*Sniff*_

_Why does the air smell sweet? What the hell is that?_

_*Sniiiiiiiiiiffffffffff*_

_Wait, why am I shaking? What the fuck?_

 

Greg woke in a very uncomfortable position on the table in that room with the piano and Sherlock and _Wait where's Sherlock? And why was I shaking?_. As he tried to adjust his eyes to the bright light in the room, he managed to find a thin blind spot slightly to his right. After a few moments, his eyes focused to see a thin, formal looking girl who was apparently wearing too much perfume. Greg realized he had no clue who this girl was and after the night he had, he wasn't prepared to start asking questions this early in the morning.

 

"Goodmorning Sir. Breakfast is being served downstairs, are you joining us this morning?" Overly perfumed asked

 

"Wha?... Yeah sure." He managed to croak back. Overly perfumed simply nodded, turned on her heel and left without another word. Greg groaned as he slowly unfurled himself from his position and slid off the table. He had to grab the piano quick to hold himself up because his legs had fallen asleep and hit a few odd keys in the process. When he had shaken feeling back into himself he carefully stumbled the short distance back to his room. When he got in his room he noticed his own clothes where gone and in the same place as the really soft pyjamas was a set of neatly folded clothes. A faint touch of a sickly sweet smell danced around the room, leading to the conclusion that overly perfumed had left them there. Lestrade found they were well suited to him, and looked as if they'd been tailored for him. A pair of black jeans and a pale denim shirt, and they both were quite comfortable which made Lestrade feel a little more at ease after such a strange series of events.

 

He was halfway through sorting his hair out when he heard a loud knock at the door. Usually when people knock on your door, they have a specific reason to do so and more often than not know who you are. And when you know someone, it is common practice to learn their name. This practice does not apply to one Sherlock Holmes.

 

"Gavin?...I've been told to fetch you for breakfast."

 

_Who the hell is Gavin?_

"Gavin?...are you alright in there?" Lestrade poked his head round the door to see Sherlock stood there is a very vibrant purple shirt.

 

"Ahh Gavin, shall we?" Sherlock motioned his head in the direction of a corridor next to them. Lestrade followed Sherlock in silence until they reached the grand stairs from the east wing.

 

"Who's Gavin?"

"It's you, isn't it?"

"No it isn't, my name's not Gavin"

"Graham?"

"No."

"Geoff?"

"Nope."

"Does your name really matter?"

"Yes... It's my name?..."

 

"Is it Gandalf?” Sherlock tried, nose laughing the whole time. Greg stopped on the stairs, sighed and turned round to face Sherlock.

 

"Look just... call me Lestrade, can you remember that?." Greg said, far too tired and hungry to bother with all this right now. Sherlock simply nodded and kept walking until they reached a white wooden door when Sherlock stopped.

"Lestrade..." Sherlock said, drawing out each letter "You should probably wait here, just incase." He stuck his head round the white door and after two seconds, slunk inside and pushed the door closed behind him. Greg stood outside and waited still until he felt really awkward just stood there and leaned closer to the door. Inside he could hear Sherlock's smooth baritone voice and another voice, one he hadn't heard before. He leaned against the door to try and see if he could hear what they were saying and fell straight through onto the carpet.  _Well done Greg. A*, they don't even know you're there._ He stood up quick and brushed himself off before seeing Sherlock throwing a glance over his shoulder at Lestrade. As if he hadn't noticed he turned back to the person in front of him and continued talking, like he'd already forgotten Greg just face-planted the floor behind him. The room was nice, it had a large fire place and shelves full of books and two large glass doors that opened up to a patio that Lestrade could only assume led to the acres of gardens that surrounded the castle. And sat in a large arm chair at one side of the fireplace, was John, quietly sipping tea and observing the conversation before them.  _Why did John leave me in the corridor last night? What was wrong?_

"Mr Lestrade, isn't it? I must apologise for last night, I seem to become somewhat animalistic after dark." The voice bought Lestrade back from his thoughts. He looked up at Sherlock who was glaring at him with a  _Don't say anything wrong_ look before moving aside to show the voice's face. A ginger haired face looked at him with cold eyes, and his head tilted slightly, and what could be called a grimace at most plastered to his lips.

"Yeah, you must be Mr Holmes?" 

"Yes, and I believe you are our newest guest as of last night?"

"Yeah, so I am I stuck.."

"You will be staying with us until you are free to leave. I trust your room is comfortable enough? If you'd like you could choose another room or decorate it differently."

"Yeah the room's lovely, where do my clothes go and where are these from? And what do you mean, free to leave?"

Mycroft sighed and indicated for Greg to sit down at a couch by the fire place and sat in an armchair matching John's, mirroring it's position by the fire. Greg found himself shaking as he moved to sit down, either with anticipation or nerves, but regardless of what it was for, it caused him to have to grab the back of the couch before sitting down. "Mr Lestrade, all will be explained to you in good time. For now, all you need to know is that your clothes are hanging up in your wardrobe and along with some others that are yours to keep. And I specifically mean you can leave once you have payed your debt to the castle. And before you ask, you got into debt by trespassing and trading your life for fathers. A noble choice can I just say, he must be so proud." Mycroft finished his little speech with the same grimace stuck to his face as before. Greg sat there, a little speechless and turned to look at John. John was looking over at Sherlock who was leant against the wall with his fingertips together resting on his lips, as if he was lost in deep thought. He turned back to Mycroft who had turned his attention to a two glasses that he filled half way with a gold liquid he could only assume was scotch. He handed one to Greg and they sat there for a while before turning to him and saying, " Welcome to the Holmes Manor, I hope you enjoy your stay." almost bitterly and John scoffed, grabbed himself a glass and sat back in his chair. Sherlock sat on the couch away from Lestrade and resumed his thinking position, staring at the fire. And there the four men sat, drinking scotch and thinking in the silence of the prison now named the Holmes Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well there you go, I hope it was alright, thank you for reading everyone :) Have a great day :)


	8. A long time ago...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FLASHBACK WITH JOHN AND SHERLOCK AND MYCROFT AND PREPARE YOURSELVES PEOPLE THERE WILL BE A FLUFF STORM I REPEAT FLUFF STORM WITH A SIDE OF INTENSE DRAMA AND FEELS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not finished yet so keep checking up on it and it should be finished soon :) Thank you to my amazing bf for giving me the energy and inspiration for this chapter and to keep writing. Thanks to you guys for reading, have a great day :)

Mamihlapinatapai  
(mah-mee-lah-pin-yah-tah-pay)  
(n) a look shared by two people, each wishing that the other would initiate something that they both desire but which neither wants to begin.

**_//Flashback//_ **

****

"What's up there?" John pointed at the staircase leading to upper left of the castle. Sherlock stopped in his tracks and whipped his head around quick.

 

"Nothing is up there John."

"Then why can't we go up there?"

"Because it's forbidden John. I've made that pretty clear."

"Why is it forbidden if nothing is up there?"

"Because Mycroft said so. And I think i'm more afraid of him than I am of you John." 

"Why? Just because he turns into a beast sometimes? Remember I was a soldier Sherlock, I killed people."

"John, you were a doctor."

 

"I had bad days." John glared at Sherlock who just gave a sharp nose exhale in amusement and kept walking. They finished the long tour of the castle by the entrance where they had started. The large crimson room adding a deadly atmosphere to an already tense atmosphere. They came to a natural stop and John found himself staring at Sherlock. _Stupid arrogant prick. Wouldn't last one day in the army, his ego is so large they'd see him a mile off, the twat. Stupid Sherlock with his big deductions and his big coat and his big brain. I'm surprised someone so smart can be so thick. What a prick. He thinks he's the big shot with his stupid scarf and his big words and his big hair. His big long curly dark hair. Long, dark, soft, curls of Sherlock Holmes. They look so perfect and big and long and dark and curly and Sherlockkk..._

A loud cough bought him back to the fact that he had not heard a word Sherlock had just said and had stared at him for... _God how long had it been? Probably too long, any time staring at Sherlock is too long. ~~Staring at him and his big perfect eyes.~~_

 

"You know where your room is John?"

 "Yeah."

 "Alright then. Goodnight John."

Sherlock turned and swept off through a door on the left before John could say another word. John unclenched the fist he'd subconsciously tightened and blinked hard. He sighed and covered his face with his hands before making his way up the grand crimson staircase. He reached the middle landing and turned to the right and placed his foot on the first step of the east staircase before stopping dead in his tracks. Curiosity dragged him backwards a few steps. He stumbled. Stopped. And without a second thought turned and walked up the stairs to the west wing of the castle. 

As soon as he entered the west wing he saw why no one went up there. The entire place was dark, deserted and destroyed. Ripped paintings like hanging grave stones, splinters of furniture strewn across the floor like bodies, all blanketed by a thick layer of cobwebs as if no one had dared touch it in a **very** long time. John glanced in every room, only to have the same morbid sight assault his eyes. All except the room at the end of the wing. He opened it to find the room containing nothing but a large mirror. John crept inside and moved quietly over to the mirror. It was huge and had a beautiful frame that had carved vines of roses that were brushed with flakey gold paint. John stared deep into it and realised there was a small shadow behind him from the moonlight. It wasn't human, no it looked more like a stand or something. Behind him was in fact, a small white table sitting on the balcony outside the room with a large glass jar on top. And inside that large glass jar, was a half bloomed rose. It's crimson colour matching that of the accents of the entire castle. John had never seen anything so beautiful in his life, and it seemed to float in the jar like it was balancing on a cloud or something. It was truly, well, magical.

John brushed his fingers over the glass and suddenly the air turned bitter and the snow began to fly down in every direction. He took a step back into the dark catacomb of a room behind him. Wind blew and howled at him, spitting snow flakes like embers from the sky. He turned to leave, but found the door he had come through had shut. John pushed on the door but had closed fully, like  _someone_ had closed it. He began to turn the door handle when he saw a shadow grow behind him, with sharp odd edges and it was getting bigger and closer and closer and John knew. From that moment on, _he knew._ Why the rest of the castle was so afraid. Why everyone lived in fear. Why no one was allowed in that bloody west wing. It where _he_  lives.  _It._ And now it was behind him, still growing bigger and towering over him like some  _monster._ John was frantically fumbling with the doorknob trying to get it open, trying and trying and...

\----------------

 

Sherlock was in his room when he heard it. That noise again. It had been almost 5 months since he last heard it and it still struck him to the bone every time. It snapped something deep inside of him, twinged a nerve that made him shiver from his messy pitch curls to his long jet oxfords. But this time it didn't just shake him, this time it froze him, made every hair stand on end, made his breath catch in his throat, his pulse race, his white knuckled fists clench tight. _John. Oh god. Not John_. He ran to the top of the east wing staircase and sure enough, a terrified John was fleeing down the last few steps. Sherlock without thinking ran after him.

 

"JOHN. WHAT DID YOU DO? JOHN? COME BACK JOHN."

 

John didn't stop running, he just sprinted as fast as he could to the giant oak doors and disappeared through them before Sherlock had even reached the first landing. He suddenly heard the sound again. A shrill of agony mixed with the terrifying roar of some beast.

 

\---------------

 

John tripped over his feet trying to get away from the castle. The gentle flutter of snow had turned into a face-slapping blizzard. He ran faster than he ever had before, not looking back, entire mind focused on getting away. Away from that...

 

He hit the gates with full force in an attempt to open them but they stood still and strong and bounced John off like he weighed nothing, making him slip on the heavy snow underfoot. Without thinking he had climbed up the gates and had just swung a leg over the other side when he heard Sherlock call out to him. "JOHN COME BACK. JOHN WAIT. NO JOHN STOP. STOP RUNNING LET ME EXPL..NO JOHN WAIT." But John had already jumped off the other side of the gate, scrambled up the snowy bank and had disappeared like mist into the trees. His hands were dirty and stinging from where he kept tripping and scraping them across the wet and rough forest floor but he kept running.

He ran as fast as he could through the thick blowing snow.  Snowflakes, which once drifted slowly to that balcony and dusted the sky with glitter, now threw themselves like shards of glass across the night. He kept going until he thought he had crossed most of the forest where he slowed down and held on to a tree while he caught his breath in the whipping winter air. John’s lungs burned with cold and fear.  He was so exhausted his knees were close to buckling beneath him and he was shaking so much you'd have thought he was shivering in the cold darkness of night. With every breath his air became tangible before being stolen by the blizzard, like it belonged to the wind. He looked up into the white before his eyes and he suddenly went still, he froze like he had just been turned to ice, and a fear so deep and terrible rose from within him, struck every nerve in his body, made pupils dilate, hair stand on end, blood pump faster and faster and faster…

John could've sworn he saw the devil through the snow storm, with it's red eyes and it's cruel snarl and its shape full of sharp edges and corners, as if even touching it could cut you. It stood across the other side of a large icy ditch and took one small step closer to the edge, still glaring at John and almost grinning sickly at him. The snow flowed either side of the monster, almost as if it itself was scared to even go near the thing. The hound howled loud into the cold night and everything from the trees to the ants seemed to freeze in fear. Two more monsters joined the beast across what now seemed like a dark abyss and they both glared at John with the same hungry and evil eyes as the first devil. John did know he was running again till he hit a tree. Hard. So hard in fact, he knocked himself backwards, slipped on the deadly black ice beneath him and was falling slowly into the deadly and icy abyss. Gripping at air he fell, John’s eyes blown wide with fear looked for an escape but only saw the trees get smaller above him and then…

 

Darkness.

 

\---------------------

 

John's eyes blinked open slowly, the hazy blur of the world spinning around him. His head was pounding and his whole body ached in ways he didn't know he could. His eyes crept back into focus as he realised  _The sky is such a weird colour, and so dark and so warm..._ And then it all hit him like tsunami. Sherlock, the rose, the beast, Sherlock, the hounds, the snow, Sherlock, the fall, the fear, Sherlock...It flooded his mind like a deadly storm surge, he took a sharp breath which burnt his lungs and as he went to sit up, a strong pair of hands held his shoulders and pushed him down. "Shh its okay John, rest"

"Sh'lock" John managed to croak. He looked around to find, he was no longer in the forest, he was led on the long couch by the fire in the drawing room. Which was strange. Because thats not where he fell asleep.  _I didn't fall asleep._ He thought.  _I was in the forest and I ran and I tripped and I..._ John's breathing became erratic as he started to panic, but the strong hands held his shoulders and calmed him down.

"It's okay now John" Sherlock's smooth baritone voice lulled. "Now stay still." He placed his hand on John's jaw and gently rubbed along it with the pad of his thumb. John flicked his eyes over and locked with Sherlock's perfect blue ones, he held his breath, and Sherlock's eyes glazed over and he leant in close and....

"AH!" john hissed at the pain, Sherlock had just dabbed a damp cloth to a nasty cut along John's cheek bones. The result was a white hot searing pain across his face. "Jees Sherlock, stop it will you. Just leave it." John pulled away too quickly and left his head in a dizzy throbbing tango. "Fine. You're welcome."Sherlock retorted. He stood up and swept toward the door, not bothering to turn back to look at John, who had very carefully stumbled to his feet and taken a trembling step toward Sherlock. 

"For what? What have you done that I should be grateful for? Keeping me _hostage_ in this...this **hell**." John raised his voice. Sherlock turned back. The tension rose. 

"What have I done? Only gone and saved your bloody life. Twice. But no don't thank me. The mighty John Watson can't ever possibly say _thank you_." Sherlock yelled.

"No Sherlock. You haven't saved me. You signed the fucking death warrant. Look at me. I'm barely even surviving Sherlock. So no I'm not gonna be grateful for some asshole and his freak brother fucking kidnapping me you utter psychopath."

"I'm not a psychopath, I'm a high functioning sociopath. Learn the difference. And learn some respect. Mycroft is not a freak and we saved your life John so you owe us, a bit of fucking gratitude would go a long way. But no. Go ahead. Go get eaten by wolves. See if I care." They were both shouting at the top of their voices now, still from opposite sides of the room.

"If you care? Since when have you given a shit about me Sherlock? Oh wait you don't. I forgot. Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends. Well i'm not fucking surprised. You don't care weather I live or die. In here or out there. I'm starting to fucking wonder which would have been the better way to go."

"Fine John. Leave. Go on I fucking dare you. I won't come to save you this time. You don't mean shit to me you bastard."

"Oh go fuck yourself Sherlock. Fuck. You."

 

Often. when there is a change in something, it is either subtle or obvious. For example a subtle change would be your best friend changing their perfume, or the weather report telling you it is raining and when you look out the window it is only spitting, or when you stop talking and a room goes quiet. An obvious change however, would be your best friend disappearing completely, or the weather report telling you it is raining and when you look out the window there is a tornado that is destroying half the town, or when you stop yelling at the top of your voice to find the rooms falls deadly silent. The results as you can tell are quite dramatic.

Or in John's case.

Deafening. 

 

The room fell deathly silent. Sherlock and John both frozen in a mixture of anger, regret and something they didn't know yet. Sherlock slowly unfurled his fists, straightened out his suit and turned away toward the door. "I should go." "No. Stay." "I need to go." "I need you to stay" John tried to take a shaky step toward Sherlock but with the adrenaline having left his body and pure exhaustion his knees buckled underneath him. He grabbed at the armchair to stop himself hitting the ground and within seconds Sherlock had run over to catch him. It wasn't the most graceful landing, Sherlock caught him by on arm about 6 inches from the ground. But it worked. He lifted him up and half carried him back over to the long couch with murmurs of  _I got you, It's okay_ and  _don't worry_ hanging lose in the air like dust in sunlight. John led back down and as if nothing had happened, Sherlock resumed tending to John's cut, this time being more gentle and pulling away when John flinches. Lots of things had been left unsaid. Words to be whispered to a star at night or played into a language only you know. Words better left unsaid. Words that, if Sherlock hadn't started talking, would have been said that very moment.

"I'm sorry John." "Dont be" "But I am." "And I am too." 

Their eyes locked again. Sherlock's blue iris pulling John under and making him subconsciously lean forward toward him, and Sherlock, hypnotised by John's perfect eyes, leant in too. Time stood still. Sherlock cupped John's face and John held his forearm like it was a life line, but at the same time, like it was made of glass.  All the words never said, all the feelings never discovered, all the things they've needed to do would happen. Right now. Their eyes closed as they got closer and closer until Sherlocks lips ghosted across John's. Pulses raced. Eyes dilated. Breath held.

And midnight struck. The chimes rung loud throughout the castle, like an alarm clock for the dead. They snapped backwards. The unspoken tension in the air was almost tangible. Sherlock turned quickly and left, sweeping out the room and leaving the door wide open in his wake. If he'd walked any faster he would've been running. John sat. Frozen. He felt like he'd had a heart attack, his beating heart freezing still in his chest. He gasped for air that wasn't there and didn't move for a very long time. 

That night, John and Sherlock both led in bed touching their lips, feeling the shadow of a kiss that never happened. 

 

**//Present day//**

 

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you there?" John called, knocking at his door. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock sat against the door, not making a sound. John knocked until his knuckles were sore and his heart knew that door was not going to open. John leant his back against it and slid down till his butt reached the floor. 

Midnight struck. But the clock didn't chime. Sherlock had broken it in a fit of rage a long time ago...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY LORD THAT WAS HEAVY. I'm so sorry this has taken so long but I've been ill alot and been under alot of stress but finally I finished it. Thanks to bench for my inspiration and well everything tbh. I hope you enjoy it and keep reading guys :)


	9. I asked you to join me for dinner (W.I.P)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Present day, and Lestrade finds that Mycroft isn't entirely cold...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, It's been so long!! I'm forever sorry about how long this took but It's been rough for a while. I dedicate this chapter to Freddie, who has given me the confidence and inspiration to write again. I hope it's still as amazing/awful as it once was xx Keep reading and drop some Kudos for me xx - L

A few weeks had passed, and the further time ticked on, the more that Greg began to feel comfortable in the castle. I say comfortable, it was still a prison for Greg, but he accustomed to the daily life there. He learnt quickly and kept to himself most days. For example, every night for the first week, Mycroft would storm up to Greg's room, pound on the door and demand he join him for dinner. It was safe to say, that Mycroft Holmes was not a patient man, so when Greg denied such an impertinent request, Mycroft would often break out into a rage that lasted him most of the night. But ever so slowly, Greg began to understand that the man could never be satisfied, and so when calmly asked to dinner, he would simply accept and grimace through the whole ordeal. The maids at the castle soon fashioned him new suits, of silk and velvet and fine cloths from around the globe. The fine material always fitted him perfectly, giving him the look to match his already refined demeanour. Within thirteen days, Greg found himself willingly going to the nightly banquet and even making small talk with Mycroft amidst his conversations with Sherlock and John. Things weren't so bad after all, he was living a far better life here than at home with his father, and he was once allowed out into Mycroft's private garden to study the flora and fungi there. 

 

For a few days now, Lestrade was requested to sit in the grand glass drawing room at the back of the castle with Mycroft. At first it was a little awkward, John having to bail him out a few times, but it became increasingly enjoyable for Greg to sit and share stories and even a laugh or two with Mycroft. It was strange, he loathed the eldest Holmes almost as much as he cherished his company, which is confusing at the least. _How can a man of such malevolence and anger be such agreeable company?_ Greg would often ponder this while studying Mycroft, noticing how his soft jawline contrasts with his sharp cheekbones, the way his eyes would soften when he was submersed in his gardens, the way the way his lips would curl when he said something particularly insulting to Sherlock. Greg couldn't help but find it all, well..... _facsinating_. _Yes, thats the word. Mycroft is **fascinating**._

 

"I hope you intend on joining me in the drawing room tomorrow, Mr Lestrade. I have somewhat of a surprise for you." Mycroft's smooth words curled across the long dining table to Greg, who was sat close to Sherlock and John. Recently he noticed John seemed a bit out of place around Sherlock. Thought he couldn't seem to possibly fathom as to why. The table was laden with a grand banquet, with every food Greg could possibly imagine; Beef ragout, cheese souffle, pie and pudding en flambe. You name it, he could probably taste it.

"For the Last time, call me Greg." He insisted. From where he was sat, the dim light of the fireplace and candelabras danced across Mycroft's stiff figure in a way that Greg had never seen. Mycroft lifted his head and glanced his eyes along the large red table runner, locking with Gregs soft gaze. It was easy to miss the slight upturn that his lips betrayed, but Lestrade couldn't fail to catch it.

"As you wish, Gregory."

Sherlock scoffed and muttered something about formal adressing, to which John retorted with "Say's the one called Sherlock. Isn't Sherlock a girls name?", and as the two began to bicker, Greg was lost in the warmth and dainty glow of the room, his eyes still locked with Mycroft's, before breaking away. He trailed his eyes across the long strip of red adorning the table.  ** _Crimson_** **.** He told himself,  ** _Smooth, luxurious and dangerous._** He didn't notice Sherlock and John arguing. He didn't notice the crackle of the fire. He didn't notice anything, accept the eyelash on Mycroft's gentle cheek, and the way the glow of candle-light turned such a harsh and cold man into something so... _beautiful..._

 _No Greg, no don't do this. He is. Beautiful_ _I mean, b_ _ut Greg you shouldn't, you can't, you just...can't._

 

The rest of the evening passed quickly, dinner finished as John and Sherlocks squabble came to a halt. Sherlock did not join the rest of them in the study, but merely skulked off into the east wing of the castle. The other three men spent the night in lighthearted small talk, or in John's case, a glass of scotch and a staring contest with the fireplace, which was usual for him when deeply thinking. After an hour or two, when the fire had burnt low and the decanter was running empty, John retired to his rooms, leaving the two gentlemen alone. They sat for a while in a comfortable silence, the simple presence of company being comforting enough.  _I wonder what the stars are doing tonight, I bet they're beautiful, maybe father can see. If father got home. Oh Greg do you know how fucked up this is? Has it even occurred to you that you're falli..._

"I'd wager the stars look beautiful tonight Gregory. I once kept in the habit of charting them." Mycroft's smooth voice interrupted Greg's thoughts.

"Why did you stop?"

"There are far too many stars Gregory, I don't have the patience for that." 

Greg chuckled to himself and took another sip of scotch, letting it soothe him from the inside, and watching the night slowly turn into day. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Mycroft paced his chamber all night, the large, soft carpet turning his harsh footsteps into soft ones as he traversed the room with anguish. The tall, cold walls echoed his breath, the golden paintings whispered back at him, distressing him further.

Mycroft Holmes was not one to pace in such a manner as this. He rarely spent time in his chamber, it felt too much like bad nostalgia for the elder Holmes, as the torn curtains and blistered furnitute often reminded him of things he drank to forget. However tonight he needed the privicy and solice of his room to contimplate the man that was Greg Lestrade.

Greg troubled Mycroft. Not only did he have a confidence, that concidering his situation was well established, but Greg had a beautiful mind. It may not be as advanced as the Holmes brothers, nor as logical as John's, but it had the ability to find wonder and adventure in everything he saw, something Mycroft found fascinating.  _Yes, that's the word. Gregory is **fascinating.**_

And the more Mycroft paced his room, the more his mind came back to Lestrade, and the more he knew that he should never have kept him.  _Caring is not an advantage Mycroft. Alone is safe. Alone is what protects us..._ But as much as he knew his own rules, his heart begged him to make an exception for Greg.  _Gregory. Beautiful, fascinating Gregory._

Then all of a sudden he snapped. The doubts and fears drowning him in a tidal wave of panic. The pacing got faster and more frantic as civil war raged within his own body, his heart battling his conscience and his brain attacking his spirit. And once the dust had settled, Mycroft collapsed onto his wreck of a bed, his aching bones melting into the comfort and wamth of sleep. But just before his body resigned itself to rest, his mind gave its final verdict:  _For God's sake Mycroft. Never let go of Greg Lestrade._

 

_\---------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Still a work in progress on this chapter guys! X_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a work in progress folks but I'm glad to be back and writing for all you lovelies again xx

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this children, please keep reading and have a good day :)


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